


classical electromagnetism

by glassedplanets



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Lightplay, Implied Wireplay, M/M, Robots Have No Need For Gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassedplanets/pseuds/glassedplanets
Summary: Routine maintenance.
Relationships: Felwinter/Timur (Destiny)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	classical electromagnetism

**Author's Note:**

> thanks brodie and giffy for looking this over!

Timur's Arc-sheathed fingers push deeper, slowly, agonizingly, and Felwinter grabs his wrist right as the first spark jumps to one of his neural cores, setting alight his entire left side, Light and lightning coursing through him. The servos in his jaw grind audibly.

"If you're uncomfortable," Timur murmurs, "speak up, won't you?"

"Timur—"

"Yes?"

Another spark. Dancing over his fingers, this time, weaving between his unyielding fingers and Timur's skin. Felwinter tightens his grip.

"Do it."

Static rushes through him, all-consuming, cresting with a high-pitched whine that rings through his sensors, and his sensory network knits itself back into place in a controlled spill of sensation, chasing the frantic rush of Timur's Light.

The first thing he feels, with his sensory network properly restored: Timur's arm at the small of his back, holding most of his weight. He’d nearly fallen over.

The second: Timur's fingers slowly untangling themselves from all the lace-delicate wiring in his chest, precise and deliberate and languid somehow. His lips are parted in concentration, eyes lowered.

The third: heat, pooling rapidly in the wake of lightning.

They both knew what Felwinter was asking for when he called on Timur. It's an inevitability, this intimacy; there's no way to light up someone's nervous system like this, like _this_ , Timur's fingertips birthing galaxies of white-hot sensation across his body, not without building potential that needs to be discharged before it explodes.

Felwinter watches the slim, dancing needle of Arc light lace him back up, closing off opened accesses in sharp jumps. Timur is stunning in his precision, in the economy of his motion, in the bright wash of his own Light. Sometimes Felwinter thinks Timur knows his body better than he himself does.

But not his mind.

Timur's hand lingers as it drifts away, trailing faint threads of static electricity, and he turns his head away. The game is familiar. Timur wants to be wanted. Felwinter traps that hand with his own, presses it against his thigh. Is rewarded with the faint flash of teeth in a smile before Timur’s hair cascades over his shoulder.

“Did you want something?” Timur asks, voice light and oblivious even as Felwinter slides his pants down with one hand and pushes Timur’s hair back with the other.

“Yes,” Felwinter replies simply.

“Ask me,” Timur murmurs, eyes shining as he tips his chin up. His fingertips curl under Felwinter’s waistband, setting off glowing points of sensation that spiral in, bloom down. 

“I don’t need to.”

Felwinter’s pants come off as gracefully – gracelessly – as ever, Timur helping and hindering in equal measure, the heel of his palm pressing between his legs, his fingertips tracing seams just as eagerly as they work to separate cloth from body. Timur sighs when Felwinter pushes his heavy coat off, leans his weight into the touch, and for a fleeting moment Felwinter lets Timur rest his cheek against the slim, compact line of his hand, lets himself feel the weight and warmth of this touch.

“Ask me, Felwinter,” Timur says softly, leaning down to press his lips under the ridge of his jaw. 

And Felwinter does, forsaking words for action, guiding Timur’s hand along the bare expanse of his thigh, and Timur makes a soft, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

Timur is infuriatingly methodical. As always. His fingers dig into the ridges of plating that line the tops of his thighs; Felwinter has tried so many times to explain how this feels, fingertips pressing into him in all the strangest places as the original blueprint of a human mind tries to accommodate for this sensation in a way that doesn’t simulate physical injury. Human minds are simple: they find the quickest, cleanest way to restructure a query. His mind crosses other wires instead.

Felwinter tries, _tries_ to search for that well of restraint that drives him everywhere else, but Timur is relentless in his slow pace, meticulous in his exploration, brutal in keeping Felwinter’s hands from touching himself when the reserve of his patience drains away. His fingers linger under the struts that yawn over Felwinter’s chest and for a moment he wonders – hopes – if Timur will call on his Light again and set every circuit in his body alight.

But no – his hand moves back down again, lines of agonizing want shuddering in its wake, and Felwinter wonders, distantly, if he is above begging when finally, _finally_ , Timur’s palms spread over his thighs again and he hums in faint interest.

(It’s a charade, he knows. The same game, this feigned distance. There’s a sheen of sweat on Timur’s brow and he’s nearly panting, unable to bring the pace of his lungs under control. Felwinter plays along; they want the same reward.)

"I wonder sometimes," Timur breathes, static discharging as his lips brush against the smooth curve of Felwinter's jaw, "if I cracked you open, what would I see?" His thumb slides over the soft, pliant plating that cushions the inside of his thigh, a spot where the sensory grid is laced so tightly Felwinter thinks he might be able to feel each whorl on Timur's thumb, might be able to analyze the way his sweat mingles with the wetness his fingers move towards. "If I ripped your heart out, would it beat like mine, or like the Warminds you chase so obsessively?"

Wrong.

Felwinter tightens his hand in the liquid fall of Timur's hair. It is a warning he could not possibly understand or heed. Not like this. That vital fistlike thing thumps loudly through Timur’s chest, beating its organic pattern against the sleek cavity that houses Felwinter’s most precious circuitry, and Felwinter trails solar-flare fingertips down Timur’s back just to feel the way his skin prickles at the touch.

Timur hums against the slim column of his throat, and his fingers finally brush against the neurosthaesic knot he's been making his way to with careful, calculated patience, and Felwinter feels coolant vent sharply through his body, unbidden, the contrast nearly painful against the liquefied heat pooling under Timur’s fingers. Like a polarized thing, he arches into Timur's touch. Like the force of a current, Timur refuses to relent.

"You'd find a mess of wires," Felwinter eventually replies, static clouding his voice, coloring it breathless. This moment, Felwinter thinks, is really what they both seek: this precipice, where Felwinter thinks he might snap, where all his inhibitions are so close to fraying like moldering thread, where he wants to rain down wrath and lust and ruin on this man and have it rain down on him in turn. Timur knows. Sees it in the set of his jawplates, feels it in the slick pooling heat of him. Knows, as all things are known with time and patience.

"You're something else," Timur murmurs. "Something more. Something I can get my hands on."

" _In_ ," Felwinter hisses, unable to hold back this pedantic correction, the want coursing through his body wearing away at all his careful inhibitions.

Timur smiles, slow and wicked.

"In," he agrees, and so do his fingers.


End file.
